The Art of Breaking Things, page 17
“Ashton, what is this?” I ask as he leans in to pepper me with more kisses.
“What we do now.” There’s a chuckle behind his words. He guides my hand to where he wants it. But the thing is, this is not what we do. It’s what he does. The last two times we hooked up, I was wasted. Who knows? Maybe I came on to him, but it seems like a decent guy would have made sure I didn’t do something that I might regret. And this time, he lied to get me to make out with him. That’s not asking permission, no matter how I try to spin it.
“I don’t want to do this with you anymore.” I pull my hand away.
“Cool,” he whispers, like he’s cajoling me. “We’ll stop after today. Promise.” He grabs my hand again.
“Where’s Ellen?” I ask, snatching my hand back once more.
“Buzzkill,” he says, with a warning tone.
“This is wrong on so many levels. You lied to me to get me to go with you. And you have a girlfriend.”
“I’ll take you home. I promise,” he whispers into my hair. “Just blow me first.”
I lean away from him, from those hands. “Blow yourself.”
“You know I’ll give back,” he says in a low voice. His hands have found me again, are working at the button of my skinny jeans.
I push his hands away and wedge myself as far away from him as I can be in the front of his SUV. “If you don’t take me home, I’ll walk.”
“You’re going to walk five miles?”
I button my jeans. “You’ve let me walk home before. Besides, don’t you have a girlfriend to do this stuff with?”
“She’s all pissed at me for some shit,” he says. “Besides, you’re so much fun.” He starts to lean toward me again.
My body likes that he says that. My body thinks it has power over him, but my not-wasted brain can see he’s manipulating me and he has been manipulating me every time. I place a hand on his chest, keeping him at a distance. “You mean, you like what I let you do.”
“No, I mean it’s not all heavy like consent and we’ll only go this far today and rules and shit.”
“And this?” I ask, gesturing between us.
“A way to kill time. Not a big deal. Besides, don’t pretend like you don’t have fun.”
I don’t love that I’m just a way to kill time, even though I know I was hoping for a distraction too. But that doesn’t mean I owe him anything. “Put the truck in gear. You’re taking me home.”
Ashton lets out a long sigh and then reverts to the Ashton I saw after the concert, after the other time I didn’t give him what he wanted. “Fine,” he says, unsmiling. He doesn’t speak to me for the entire five miles to my house. He pulls the truck to a stop and won’t even look at me.
“You’re a dick when you don’t get what you want. You know that, right?”
Ashton shrugs. “Whatever, Skye. You getting out or what?”
“Enjoy your cold shower,” I say and slam the truck door shut.
* * *
—
“Where’s your car?” Mom asks as we’re getting dinner on the table. “I didn’t see it outside.”
She doesn’t sound accusatory, just curious.
“It needed a part. My friend Keith is working on it for me.” The lie rolls off my tongue with ease and I feel a little bad for not telling the truth, but Mom can’t know what really happened.
“How much is that going to cost?” Mom asks.
I hadn’t expected that question, but I give her the truth. “One hundred dollars. It was going to be a lot more, but he’s giving me a deal.”
“You have the money, right?”
“Technically, yes, but I was trying to save it for college.”
“If you need help, just tell me.”
“Thanks,” I say. There’s no way I’m taking money from my mother to get my car out of the impound lot, but I appreciate her offering to help when I know that things are always tight financially for us. Our conversation reminds me to text Keith for an update. After what Ashton pulled, I want to be sure I’m getting my information from the source.
Skye: I need Lucy back. When should I come to work my time off?
Keith: Pops says this weekend works
How’s Sunday?
I sigh at my phone. Being without a car this whole week will be annoying, but I remind myself of the deal that Mr. Williams gave me.
Skye: Tell your dad thanks. Needs to be in the afternoon. Working a.m.
Keith texts back a thumbs-up emoji and I slide my phone into my back pocket.
“Where’s Dan?” Emma says. “He promised to help me with my lines for the play.”
Mom is bent over her laptop, trying to catch up on work. She’s always trying to catch up.
“I can help you,” I say.
“Yeah, but Dan has experience with theater. That’s what he said. I wanted him to help me.”
“Was he supposed to be here tonight?” I ask.
Emma nods. “Yes, he’d said we’d practice after dinner tonight. He said that last week. But he didn’t even come over for my birthday dinner. Mom, what’s going on?”
Mom finally looks up from her laptop. She takes off her glasses. “I’m not sure, Em. I’m sorry that you feel disappointed. Dan and I are just trying to work out a few things.”
I’d thought they’d worked out all the things during the five months they’d been seeing each other in secret and that’s why they were getting married. Life’s too short and all that. But then again, I remember what Mom said that night when she was drunk.
“Are you still getting married?” Emma asks now.
Mom squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t know. I truly don’t,” she says. The sadness in her voice is almost enough to stop me from feeling relieved that the wedding might be off. Almost.
25
Just Like Her
ON TUESDAY, AS I’m coming out of the bathroom stall, I find Ellen leaning against the sink. A few other girls are there, checking their makeup or fixing their hair. “I knew you were a slut,” Ellen says in a loud voice. “I mean, who doesn’t know that?”
I glance at the girls, who are pretending not to hear. Ellen’s statement is probably nothing new to them.
“But now you’ve dropped to a whole new level.”
Oh, shit.
She shoves her phone in my face. I have to back up a little bit to understand the photo displayed there. When it resolves, I see that it’s me and Ashton in his SUV. At least all we did was kiss. And we’re not even kissing in this photo. Thank God.
“You need to stay away from my boyfriend,” Ellen hisses at me. Her curtain of shining black hair falls forward, obscuring half of her face. I can’t help thinking that if I drew her, I’d need some white or even a shade of blue to capture the way that the light catches on her hair. I’d call the drawing The Other Side of the Wall.
I want to pull out my phone to show her the text exchange—that he sought me out. But that wouldn’t explain why I agreed when I knew he was Ellen’s.
“That was nothing,” I say.
It’s true that nothing really happened. Nothing huge, anyway, but Ellen doesn’t need to know more. I’ve stopped the madness with Ashton. I think about our text exchange and I realize he covered his ass. Our texts were about my car. I go with his lie.
“He was taking me to deal with my car.”
“Then why are you parked at the quarry?” She stares at me, both of us knowing that the only reason anyone goes to the quarry is to party or to hook up.
I take a breath and look Ellen in the eye. I feel guilty for the stuff that’s happened with Ashton. I never planned to hook up with someone else’s boyfriend. And Ellen and I used to be friends. I think about Ashton lying to me to get me to hook up with him.
“Why don’t you ask him? He was the one driving.”
Ellen flips her hair out of her face. “Be straight with me. Were you or were you not hooking up with my boyfriend?”
“Okay, Ellen, I’ll be straight with you. How’s this? You could do so much better than Ashton.”
Ellen sighs impatiently. “He’s the quarterback and I’m captain of the Spirit Squad,” Ellen says, like she has no choice in the matter.
“Just because it sounds perfect, doesn’t mean it is perfect. You’ve got spies watching him and reporting back. How is that an ideal relationship?”
“I don’t have spies,” she says, looking away. “That person just happened to see Ash’s truck.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Really, Ellen?”
Ellen angles her head, evaluating me. She pulls in a deep breath through her nostrils and lets it out again. She looks away and then back at me. “Just stay away from people’s boyfriends, Skye.”
I want to tell her to make sure her boyfriend stays away from me, but I keep my face neutral and she leaves.
* * *
—
Toward the end of the day, I call the rehab where they sent Ben. Hanging with the girls didn’t help. Being with Ashton definitely didn’t help. There’s only one thing to fill a Ben-shaped hole and that’s Ben. I need to hear his voice.
“Good afternoon, Blue Valley Treatment Center, where we help you become the best version of you. How can I help?”
“I’m trying to reach a . . . patient.”
“We are not a hospital,” the pleasant female voice intones. “Our clients are here to better themselves.”
“Right. I’m trying to reach a client. Ben Schwartz.”
“And you would be?”
“A friend.”
“As per our confidentiality regulations, we cannot confirm or deny that such a client is staying here, but you can feel free to leave a message, and if that individual is staying with us, we will be sure that he receives your message.”
What kind of bullshit is this? “Okaaaay. If Ben Schwartz is there . . . bettering himself, can you tell him that Skye Murray called? And that she’s thinking about him?” Okay, that last part sounded pathetic. But it’s true. I’m thinking of the absence of Ben every single moment of each day.
The unfailingly pleasant voice responds, “I will give the client the message, should he be here.”
“Ms. Murray!” a voice booms behind me.
“Uh . . . thanks.”
I click off the call just as Vice Principal Kincaid waddles up to me with his hand out. “You know the rules, Ms. Murray.”
No cell phone use during the school day. Period. I could claim that it’s some kind of emergency, but knowing Kincaid, he’d want to call to confirm. It’s not worth a fight.
“My phone is password protected, so don’t try scrolling through all my selfies, Mr. K,” I say as I drop the phone into Mr. Kincaid’s sweaty palm.
“Watch it, Ms. Murray, or you’ll be serving detention alongside your phone.”
I hold my hands up in surrender.
“You can retrieve this at the end of the day.”
I nod and wait for a minute to see if he wants to give me one of his canned lectures on missing class, breaking rules, and generally being a fuckup at Pennswood High. But all he says is, “Now get to class.”
Once I was a girl who read lots of books and did well in school and was chosen by teachers for all the teacher’s pet things. Once I was the girl who inspired principals to smile and say words like proud, award, accomplishment. Then I became the girl who looked for the easiest way to chase away bad memories.
I turn toward the unending row of lockers heading toward the science classes. When I am sure that I’m out of Kincaid’s line of vision, I sneak into the studio, hoping the artsy overachievers won’t be working on their next scintillating episode of This Week at Pennswood High. Luckily, the studio is pitch-black. I slump into one of the chairs used by the interviewers and try to imagine the next four weeks without Ben . . . or his weed.
I wake up when the last bell rings and rush out the door. I’m disoriented from falling asleep in that dark room during the school day. I’m hitting all kinds of lows lately. Today is Emma’s short day—no rehearsal—and I’m supposed to meet her at home. Not that she thinks I need to. With no car and Ben gone, I sprint to make the bus.
When I get home, the house is empty. I go to pull my phone from my pocket and remember that Kincaid took it and I was supposed to pick it up at the end of school. I stalk through the house, as if I’ll find Emma behind a door or in the shower. I think about things she’s told me lately about her friends—weren’t she and her friends texting boys at Julia’s sleepover? I think about what I used to do when I was her age. I look toward the woods. Would she?
It takes me about ten minutes to find them. A group of six kids—boys and girls—sitting in a circle on the carpet of pine needles. Emma and another boy are kneeling and kissing. From the looks of it, this isn’t Emma’s first kiss. My stomach tumbles.
I clear my throat and four sets of eyes look guilty. Emma and the boy take a moment to register the noise and pull apart, a bit of saliva connecting them for a fraction of a second.
Her eyes go wide when she sees me standing nearby. She covers her mouth with her hand, as if she can erase what just happened. Slowly, she rises from her knees and walks over to me like the accused walking the plank. I want to be the cool older sister. I want to, but I can’t. Worry has choked the cool right out of me.
“You weren’t home,” I say and recognize my mother’s accusatory tone coming from my mouth.
“I texted you.” She looks surprised.
“I don’t have my phone.”
She bites her lip and frowns. “And that’s my fault?”
“Get your stuff.” I can’t seem to bite back the Mom-edge from my voice. “You need to go home.”
She glares at me. “I’m hanging out with my friends.”
“You’re kissing boys in the woods!” I hiss at her. “You were supposed to come home after school.”
She looks over her shoulder toward the group of kids. The boy she’d been kissing, the tall boy with dark hair, says something, and they all laugh. Must be Thomas. I remember her mentioning him after the sleepover at Julia’s. Fear tugs at me from the inside, freaking me out about Emma growing up so fast in this way.
“What’s the deal with him?” I tilt my chin toward the boy.
“Thomas? Nothing. We’re just playing a game.” She giggles and then covers her mouth.
I think of Ashton and how much fun he thinks I am. And I think of Ellen confronting me in the girls’ bathroom. Is this the cycle that we’ve created? Dan did what he did. I made my own bad choices and now Emma.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go.”
“Skye,” Emma hisses. “You’re embarrassing me. I’ll be home soon. I promise.”
There’s trust in her eyes and I hate myself a little when I say, “No, get your bag. We’re leaving now.”
“God, you’re just like Mom.”
After she says that, I hate myself even more. Emma and I used to be allies, and it rips at my gut to have her compare me to Mom. I don’t back down even though I want Emma to think I’m the cool sister. Being cool is just surface shit compared to keeping her safe and making sure she doesn’t make the same bad choices that I did. As we walk back, Emma fuming and muttering under her breath, I have a teeny sense of what it must be like to be Mom—except Mom didn’t keep me safe when I needed her to. I won’t fail Emma in the same way.
26
AFTER: I am fourteen. Summer before ninth grade
TWILIGHT ON THE boardwalk seems magical, like anything can happen. During the day, the boardwalk is just a wooden sidewalk with lots of stores and food. But at night, it’s a carnival where groups of kids wander like packs of wolves. Lights blink and music pounds from inside the arcade. The night is coming on purple and blue, and Luisa and I are looking for a party.
“That’s Joey’s friend,” Luisa says, pointing to a guy coming out of Franzoni’s. “He’s the guy I told you about who knows where all the parties are.”
“Tall,” I say as I lick my soft serve. It is melting a little bit in the heavy salt air.
Luisa wrinkles her nose. “Yeah, but too skinny.” Then she calls, “Derek! Over here.”
He veers toward Luisa’s voice and she waves. He bounces a little on his toes when he walks. He is super skinny, but I like his longish hair and the scruff on his cheeks. Boys my age don’t have that.
“You’re Shelby’s friend, right?” he says to Luisa.
“Yeah, Luisa.” Luisa points to herself. “And this is Skye.” Luisa points to me.
“What’s up?” Derek says in my direction.
I lick my ice cream and nod at him. His eyes hover. Does he like me?
“So, where’s the party tonight?” Luisa asks.
“How old did you two say you are?” Derek says, eyes skipping from one of us to the other.
Luisa and I don’t even look at each other. Shelby had been very clear about the fact that we could not let these guys know that we were only starting ninth grade in a few weeks.
“Sixteen,” Luisa says.
I look at Derek and take the entire top of the cone in my mouth, sucking the sweetness. I’d seen a girl do that in a movie, and I wondered if it would get this boy’s attention. He blinks and looks back at Luisa, but his eyes skip over to me again. I lick all the way around the cone, letting my tongue twirl around.
“Yeah, okay,” he says. “It’s not far from here. I’ll text you where to go. Unless you want to meet here when I get off and we could go over together.” His eyes linger on me and my ice-cream cone.
So he does like me. I try to act cool by licking my lips and tossing the cone in a nearby trash can. “Let’s meet. What time do you get off?”
It hits me that maybe my words sound dirty. I feel my face turning red, but I play it off like I meant it and smile at Derek.
